‘He does, but I’ll talk him out of it. There are three main lowland areas still to fall, and they’ll yield richer pickings than these mountains.’
‘I like the mountains. I’d like to build a home here,’ said Ongist.
‘You will soon, my brother. I promise you.’
Oracle sat alone, gazing into the fire, lost in yesterday’s dreams when armies swept across the land with their lances gleaming and banners raised.
A red Hawk on a field of black. The Outlanders streaming from the battlefield, broken and demoralised. Sigarni raising her sword in the sunset, the Battle Queen triumphant.
Such had been the glory of youth when Oracle crossed the Gate to the kingdom beyond. The old man drew his grey cloak about his shoulders, stretching his legs forward, soaking in the heat from the burning beech in the hearth. He stared down at the backs of his hands, wrinkled and spotted with the drab brown specks of age.
But once upon a time . . .
‘Dreaming of glory?’ asked Taliesen.
Oracle jerked up as if struck, twisting in his seat. He cursed softly as he recognised the ancient druid. ‘Pull up a chair,’ he said.
The druid was small, and skeletally thin, his white hair and beard sparse and wispy, clinging to his face and head like remnants of winter mist. But his eyes were strangely youthful and humorous, antelope-brown and set close together under sharp brows. From his skinny shoulders hung a cloak of birds’ feathers, many-hued, the blue of the kingfisher flashing against raven black, soft pale plover and eagle’s quill.
He leaned his long staff against the cave wall and seated himself beside the Oracle. ‘The boy came then,’ said the druid, his voice soft and deep.
‘You know he did.’
‘Yes. And so it begins: the destruction of all that we love.’
‘So you believe.’
‘Do you doubt me, Oracle?’
‘The future is like soft clay to be moulded. I cannot believe it is already set and decided.’
The druid gave a low curse. ‘You of all men should know that the past, present and future exist together, woven like a cloth, interweaving. You crossed the Gate. Did you learn nothing?’
‘I learned the error of pride. That was enough for me.’
‘You look old and tired,’ said the druid.
‘I am both. How is it that you still live, Taliesen? You were old when I was a babe at the breast.’
‘I was old when your grandfather was a babe at the breast.’
For a while both men sat in silence staring into the flames, then Oracle sighed and shifted in his seat. ‘Why have you come here?’ he whispered.
‘Sigarni has crossed the Gate. She is at the cave on High Druin.’
Oracle licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘How is the girl?’
Taliesen gave a dry laugh. ‘Girl? She is a woman near as old as you. As I said, you do not understand the intricacies of the Gateways.’
‘Well, how is she anyway, damn you?’
‘Gravely wounded, but I will heal her.”
‘May I see her?’
The druid shook his head. ‘It would not be wise.’
‘Then why come to me at all?’
‘It may be that you can help me.’
‘In what way?’
‘What happened to the sword you stole from her?”
Oracle reddened. ‘It was payment for all I had done for her.’
‘Do not seek to justify yourself, Caracis. Your sin led to more wars. You cost Sigarni far more than you were worth; then you stole Skallivar. You told me you lost it in the fight that brought you back to us, but I no longer believe you. What happened to it?’
Oracle rose and walked to the rear of the cave. He returned carrying a long bundle wrapped in cloth. Placing it on the table, he untied the binding and opened the bundle. There lay a shining sword of silver steel. ‘You want it?’ Oracle asked.
Taliesen sighed, and flipped the cloth back over the blade. ‘No. Damn you, man! You crossed the Lines of Time. You will die and
never know the chaos you gave birth to. I have tried to put it right, and have only succeeded in creating fresh paradoxes.’